


Witness Me

by CoffeeMinx



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fix-It, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Precious Feral Cinnamon Roll and I Just Want Him to be Happy, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Swearing, What am I doing? I don't even go here, canon? i don't know her, everyone is bi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27597733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeMinx/pseuds/CoffeeMinx
Summary: “So do it!”Jaskier hopped down from his rock and strode right up to Geralt’s back. He could hear the bard’s heart thumping, could smell his simmering rage.“Destiny doesn’t exist, remember? Life can’t give you any blessings,” Jaskier continued, voice far deeper and rougher than usual. “You want to remove me from your life? Do it yourself!” He poked Geralt in the back in time with the last three words for emphasis.Geralt snarled and spun, slapping Jaskier’s still raised hand out of his personal space the way he’d deflect an arrow with his sword.Instead of the verbal response Geralt expected—honestly, instead of the yelp of pain he was expecting, Jaskier—in an admirable blur of motion—had both hands up, palms out, and was now shoving him.“Do it, Witcher!” The bard’s blue eyes blazed. “Youchose Law of Surprise. That wasyourchoice. Nothing to do with me. But go ahead.” He shoved again. “Take me off your hands. Go on. Do it,you coward.”-------------Title from a song lyric byThe Amazing Devil(Joey Batey's band).
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 722





	Witness Me

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, watching the TV show, I missed that Jaskier has been friends with Geralt for TWENTY TWO YEARS at the time of the fight in this episode. I only discovered this while reading fix-it fics on here, and I HAVE FEELINGS ABOUT THIS. 
> 
> I mean, if it had been just a few years, off and on, I could see his sad departure. But TWENTY TWO??!!
> 
> Oh no. No no no no no. No. We are having this conversation.

_“So do it!”_

Jaskier hopped down from his rock and strode right up to Geralt’s back. He could hear the bard’s heart thumping, could smell his simmering rage.

“Destiny doesn’t exist, remember? Life can’t give you any blessings,” Jaskier continued, voice far deeper and rougher than usual. “You want to remove me from your life? Do it yourself!” He poked Geralt in the back in time with the last three words for emphasis.

Geralt snarled and spun, slapping Jaskier’s still raised hand out of his personal space the way he’d deflect an arrow with his sword. 

Instead of the verbal response Geralt expected—honestly, instead of the yelp of pain he was expecting, Jaskier—in an admirable blur of motion—had both hands up, palms out, and was now shoving him. 

“Do it, Witcher!” The bard’s blue eyes blazed. “ _You_ chose Law of Surprise. That was _your_ choice. Nothing to do with me. But go ahead.” He shoved again. “Take me off your hands. Go on. Do it, _you coward_.”

Each push only succeeded in jostling Geralt, not moving him, but that didn’t seem to be worrying the bard. This was the same fierce, reckless anger Jaskier had aimed at the elves at the edge of the world in defense of a bound and beaten Geralt, all those years ago. 

Geralt crowded him, teeth bared, growling in warning. Jaskier should know his current target wouldn’t take prisoners.

Jaskier ignored him. “Oh, and the djinn? That was _your_ hand on the shit shovel, that was. Melitele’s tits! Who goes to a djinn for sleep?!”

“It would have been fine, if not for you and your….” Restraint fraying its last thread, Geralt pushed Jaskier, sending him stumbling back on his heels. It should have sent the bard to the ground, but Geralt was more focused on not using his fists than effectively employing his strength. “Your… _weakness_.” He sneered the final word.

Jaskier surged forward and grabbed Geralt by his crossed leather baldrics. 

He pulled Geralt up short, wrenching them together so they stood practically chest to chest. Automatically, Geralt grasped the bard by the shoulders, but any proper defensive response was lost in his surprise. He’d been vaguely aware he and Jaskier were of a similar height, but Jaskier never used his stature this way.

“My _weakness_? My _injury_ was on _you_ ,” the bard growled as he glared into Geralt’s eyes. “You. Wished. Death. On me.” Sparks snapped in his gaze. Then his jaw set, his eyes narrowed, and he very deliberately hissed, “ _Butcher._ ”

In the next instant, his mouth was on Geralt’s, his teeth sinking into Geralt’s lower lip, tearing flesh, bringing a gush of blood.

Geralt roared, pushing the bard away even as Jaskier jumped back.

The witcher raised his fist. _not a monster_ Even in his fury, he knew. _not a monster_ Jaskier was human, fragile, and in no sense evil. This was all wrong.

But his fist was moving anyway.

It was a good punch. An instinctual lashing out, harnessed by decades of training into something devastating. A punch to kill monsters. Approaching the bard’s face.

The world slowed. Jaskier would never forgive him for this. He’d leave, like Yen left, like everyone always left. 

His fist tunneled through unresisting air to connect... 

... with nothing, as Jaskier dodged.

Not merely dodged, but dodged with a sense of timing and burst of graceful speed that would make Vesemir proud. 

The witcher grunted in surprise.

“That the best you can do?” A manic gleam lit Jaskier’s eyes, but not brighter than the feral grin slashed across on his face, all teeth and madness.

He sauntered a step closer, brash and lithesome despite the years. Geralt couldn’t help noting the righteous anger swirling within the bard’s scent, how his veins sang with excitement, and the exertion that pinked his cheeks.

“Or are hands not your thing?” Jaskier made gestures in the air with his own hands as he spoke, long aristocratic fingers vaguely sketching some reference only he knew. “Draw your sword, then. Go ahead. I’ll wait.” 

A quick toss of his head, defiant, and a ray of sun fell on his lips and chin, reddened and streaked scarlet with Geralt’s blood. 

Jaskier was unarmed and unafraid. 

He was magnificent.

_what no_

He was an idiot who needed Geralt to save him from everything. Who _needed_ Geralt. Geralt’s lip curled. The last thing he wanted was someone needing him. Not Yen. Not Jaskier. Not anyone. 

He’d show the fool the danger of _loving no he'd never_ **following** a witcher.

Seething, Geralt’s next punch was far less perfect. And missed Jaskier all the same. 

But this time, Geralt was off-balance on the follow-through, and Jaskier tackled his knees, taking them both to the dirt. 

Although somehow the bard managed to roll, and was back up on his feet in an instant, both arms raised triumphantly above his head. “Oxenfurt, one. Kaer Morhen, zero!” 

Geralt growled in wordless fury. He had inhuman strength and inhuman skills. He was a death-dealing, inhuman monster, something to be avoided, feared, and shunned. Why did the bard not take this seriously?

Jaskier was sensible enough to fear other monsters. Kikimora. Drowners. But when it came to Geralt himself, Jaskier had never feared, not from the very beginning. 

_why did he never fear?_

“Why can’t you just fucking leave?!” Geralt snarled, gathering himself. 

Yen was right to leave him. He realized that. He had betrayed her by taking her choice, her consent. 

Jaskier should leave before he betrayed him, too. The life of a witcher could not be shared, not with a sorceress, not with a bard, and sure as hell not with a Child Surprise.

“I don’t want you! I don’t want anyone!” What was the phrase? _A little hurt now to spare Jaskier greater pain later._

“Nope. I’m not having that. Not sincere. C’mon, Geralt. Make me believe.”

Geralt snarled and struck. This time he anticipated Jaskier’s dodge and connected, though the damnably agile man avoided all but a glancing blow. It merely forced him to stumble in his recovery—onto uneven ground. A patch of pebbles rolled under his boot heel, he slipped, and suddenly Jaskier was tumbling sideways to disappear over the edge of the cliff.

Without thinking, Geralt lunged after him, straining for every drop of speed he possessed.

Jaskier was hanging, one handed, from a small desert brier, watching his feet dangle in the air high above the trees. At Geralt clasping his forearm, he looked up. Dark laughter bubbled from his throat. He released his hold on the brier. But did not grasp Geralt’s forearm in turn.

Geralt grunted as his one arm now bore all of Jaskier’s weight. 

“Life has blessed you, Geralt. Just what you asked for. Guess you’ll have to believe in destiny now.”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. And all you have to do is let go.”

“Dammit, Jaskier—“

“You said that already.”

“I don’t want you dead.”

“Off your hands, you said. You want me _off your hands_.”

“Not. Dead,” Geralt ground out, trying to pull Jaskier up. Scree trickled down the mountainside, pelting Jaskier’s bent head and drawing Geralt closer to the edge. Teeth bared, Geralt redoubled his efforts.

“Why not? We aren’t friends, apparently. You never call me your friend. Why is that, by the way?” Jaskier’s free hand rested on his hip. He crossed his ankles. From his stance, he could have been trading sassy barbs with patrons in a tavern, not hanging by one arm inches from death. “Twenty years, still not friends. What did I do with my life, you ask? Oh, devoted myself to a man who can’t say the ‘f’ word.”

“Fuck.”

“Not that one.”

“Because you’re more than that!” Geralt bellowed. 

Pebbles rattling farther down the cliff could be heard in the ensuing silence. Jaskier’s heartbeat sped, beating louder than it ever had yet. Geralt inhaled deeply. Still no fear, though.

“What?” Jaskier finally said, voice pitched higher than normal and slightly cracked at the edges. 

Geralt shook his head and swore under his breath. “Get up here and I’ll explain it.”

“No.”

More of the cliff edge gave way and the resulting chunks of scree tumbled down the cliffside perilously close to Jaskier.

“Fuck.” But Geralt had managed to get both hands on the bard now, and was pulling him higher, despite Jaskier’s deliberate lack of cooperation. 

The back of Jaskier’s head cleared the ledge, but as he was facing away, he was unable to help Geralt lever him over.

“Turn and climb, bard,” Geralt growled. 

“No. Oh, no. I’m not asking to be rescued. It’s on _you_ if I live.”

“Don't throw away your life in a fit of resentment.”

“Why not? You do.”

“That’s not—“ Geralt grit his teeth. He could have howled with frustration. “I’m trying to help you.”

Jaskier snorted derisively. “When?”

“Always!” he shouted as he heaved Jaskier up onto solid ground. Jaskier lay on his back, legs bent at the knees and dangling with artless ease over the side of the cliff, and stared up at him. 

_how can so many different colors of blue exist in one space_

The bard’s expression looked more confused than grateful. 

“How is verbal abuse helping me? How is rejecting my friendship helping me?”

Geralt swiveled to sit facing away from both the cliff and the bard. His lips formed a hard line, refusing to let any answer slip before he sorted the maelstrom of emotions in his mind. 

Did he really want the bard off his hands? No. But witchers weren't meant for.... He couldn't be responsible for _a bard a lover a child no no_ **anyone.** What if he couldn't protect them? He didn't mind if his failure meant his own death. But to have others' lives depending on his survival?

The silence stretched as Geralt struggled. “If you leave... you will _live_. Happily,” he finally said. His hands formed fists of their own accord. “Don’t tie yourself to a butcher.” 

He hunched over his crossed legs and bowed his head, studying the ground as he waited for Jaskier’s response. 

He heard Jaskier roll over, get his knees under him, and then he was crawling past to kneel in front of Geralt, facing him.

“I’ve never thought you a butcher, Geralt. Ever. Not even when I reckoned why the djinn attacked my throat. Hey.” He prodded Geralt’s leg. “I wished death on Valdo Marx, so I’m no better.”

Geralt swallowed. He had never explained. Never apologized. He’d feared the bard _would leave_ would never sing his praises again if he knew. But he did know. And he had stayed. 

“I didn’t mean those words.”

“Oh. Well. Guess I’m worse than you, then.” Jaskier simply said, merrily unrepentant. “But I’ll have you know Valdo Marx entirely deserves to— Wait. Are you smiling? You’re smiling, aren’t you.”

“Never,” Geralt huffed softly, though he knew he was. 

Jaskier could always lighten his mood. He had no doubt the bard would have succeeded in cheering him yet again when Yen left, if he hadn’t lashed out. But he hadn’t wanted to feel better, hadn’t _deserved_ to feel better when Yen left. 

And Jaskier hadn’t deserved those harsh words. All he did was hurt the bard. At least this time he hadn't physically hurt him. He glanced up at Jaskier. “Where did you learn to dodge like that?”

Jaskier laughed, but the sound had a bitter undertone. “How do you think I survive when I’m not with you?” 

Geralt's steady pulse skipped. Why had he never considered how vulnerable Jaskier must be—a lone bard on the road? Dangers on the Path were unnatural, and Jaskier shouldn’t have to face them. But normal life, for humans, was fraught with its own dangers. 

Dangers which Jaskier had successfully defeated for years. 

“Then why...?” Geralt didn’t get to finish his question.

Jaskier ducked his head and looked away. “It’s more fun watching you save me.” A flush of red crept up his throat and over the side of the cheek Geralt could see. “It makes me feel like you ...” Jaskier shrugged one shoulder. It stayed up by his ear, crooked and unhappy. “… like you believe I’m worth saving.” 

It would be easy to touch that shoulder. Settle it with a gentle pat. Relax its stiff defense with a comradely squeeze. The sort of contact that came naturally between human friends. The sort of contact Jaskier relentlessly offered him, and which he secretly, in his heart of hearts, relished, though he would die rather than admit it.

He reached out. His arm stopped in mid-air. What if Jaskier didn’t wish to be touched? What if—

Jaskier turned his face to him again and started as he saw Geralt’s hand hovering between them.

Twin instincts, one to pull back and one to finish the motion, warred within the witcher.

Jaskier’s wary surprise at the hovering limb shifted into something so warm and welcoming, Geralt’s hand continued the motion before he consciously made the decision. 

He gripped Jaskier’s shoulder. “I believe... you are one of the few... _very_ few people I’ve met... worth saving. Worth saving _repeatedly_ ,” he said, with all the conviction his gravelly voice could carry. If he could just manage to keep the words coming, get them out so Jaskier could hear them. _Anger was so much easier_. His fingers kneaded the fine fabric of Jaskier’s doublet, the pleasing feel of wiry muscle beneath lending him courage. “That’s why… to keep you safe….”

Jaskier snorted. “If I wanted to be kept safe on a shelf I would’ve stayed a viscount. And you’re doing it again.” The bard held on to the hand on his shoulder as he inched forward on his knees, entering Geralt’s space. Geralt forced himself to stay still and allow the intrusion. “You’re removing my choice from the equation and dismissing my consent. My _enthusiastic_ consent.” As if this phrase sent his mind in an entirely new direction, Jaskier’s gaze latched on to Geralt’s lips. “Witcher healing powers, I swear. Hardly a mark on you, you bastard.”

“Which is why—”

“No. No no no no no. Once and for all. Am I your friend? Geralt? Am I?”

Geralt grunted. He muttered to himself. He swore. Then he said, “You are my best friend.”

“Yes! I knew it. Your very best friend in the whole wide world?”

“Yes."

“No need to say it like I’m pulling teeth.”

“You’re... _fuck_... If I start this, I won’t be able to stop.” He glared at Jaskier, waiting for him to save himself, to back off, to interrupt. He didn’t. Instead, he gently brushed a long, grimy lock of Geralt's hair out of the witcher's face. Geralt huffed at him. “You’re the only one who’s ever made me... _feel things_ without first resorting to magic or mutagens or...." He made a throw-away motion with his arm. "You wrote me a song... before I'd even bothered to learn your name." He sighed. "You have been more than a friend. For years. Decades. And I have no word for that." 

Water blue eyes had turned misty. "You could have just said." His fingertips stroked Geralt's cheek.

Geralt closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. "You should still leave me. My Path is dangerous. If you die...."

“One day I will die. No one can save me from death, dear Witcher — though I expect to award you full marks for trying. But that's all the more reason to figure out what pleases us and do it. Right? Yes?"

Jaskier had moved closer. He adjusted their positions so he was... _petting? yes_ He was petting Geralt's hair, very lightly, and cradling Geralt's head against his chest. Geralt let himself be moved as the bard willed, without opening his eyes. Jaskier smelt comfortingly of warm leather, musk, and salt—less like sweat and more like the sea. 

"Going to the coast?' Geralt said, reminded Jaskier's earlier suggestion.

"Going to the coast _with you_ , would be what pleases me. Going to the nearest inn for a bath, in all honesty, as long as it is _with you_. The 'going' bit, not the 'bath' bit. Although...." He pronounced the last word suggestively, and Geralt could picture the eyebrow waggle accompanying it. "Geralt? You're not going to growl at me? Show me Scary Face? Geralt, are you sure you're at all well?" he teased.

Geralt snorted, without moving. "You object to sharing my bath?"

"What? No! Wait. What?"

“Hmm. What about my bed?”

“Sweet Melitele, I’m dead. I plummeted to my death. You failed to save me, you absolute—"

“You’re not dead. I’m asking.”

“Sit up and look me in the eyes. Right. Say that again.”

“Jaskier. Will you share my Path with me?”

“Yes. Now get to the bed part.”

“Knowing the hardships, and the dangers, and that...”

“You’re shit at expressing yourself?”

“...Yes. Knowing that, will you...”

“Accept your cold, dead heart? And treasure it always?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but doggedly plunged ahead. “...Share my life and my bed.”

“Yes. Of course. I love you.”

“Hmm.”

“That was the happy grunt, but it doesn’t count. You have to be explicit on this—you are consenting to my company? As travel companion. Bard. Biographer. Lover. All of it?”

“Enthusiastically.” Geralt smiled, the smile that showed his teeth and used to frighten townsfolk before he learned to smother it. 

Jaskier, of course, just smiled back. The bared teeth of a witcher held no fear for him, and no doubt never would. “What about pet names? Do witchers do pet names? What are wolf babies anyway? Puppies? I don't think I could call you that. Kitten, though. Cute but ferocious. What do you think?”

Geralt leaned into Jaskier's space, and found Jaskier’s chapped lips, hot mouth, and silver tongue far more deadly against his personal demons than any defense he’d yet tried.


End file.
